


crashed into my life

by steelphoenix



Series: Accidental Crossovers [2]
Category: Formula 1 RPF, Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen, about three people will like this fic, completely pointless mentoring fluff, this fic has no redeeming features whatsoever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 02:39:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15764919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelphoenix/pseuds/steelphoenix
Summary: Inspired by Freddie being at the Montreal GP. I have no idea if Freddie likes F1 or not, but I'm assuming it's not really his cup of tea for plot purposes. Also yes, Stroll isn't a rookie, but Freddie doesn't know that.Unbeta'ed because this is not high literature.





	crashed into my life

The roar of engines is still shaking the air, but Freddie has grown bored of the race for now. He'd mostly come as a favour to Hampus, and it was initially pretty fun - he'd enjoyed the buildup, meeting Magnusson, mingling on the grid, but once the race started, nothing much happened. The crash in the first couple of minutes had been briefly entertaining, but that had quickly palled. The other people in the VIP area are okay, but Freddie's had enough of vapid small-talk in English. He's far too close to being done with people for today.  
  
He slips out the back and down to the hospitality areas, grabbing a bottle of water from the Haas stand and then scouts around for a quiet corner to chill.  
  
Down behind the garages, Freddie finds a little nook between two giant trunk-trailers - a hideously yellow Renault one and another one marked 'Martini'. There's a set of steps down from one of them, and he sits down, uncaps his water bottle, taking a long sip and enjoying the breeze. It's typical Canadian summer day, warm but not too warm, with patchy clouds. He leans back on the steps and closes his eyes, letting his head tip back. He tilts his hat down to cover his face and just breathes, long and slow, in and out, calming and centering.   
  
He slides easily into goalie headspace, the cool of the ice wrapping around him and making every sense and reaction sharp and clear. The click of the door above him and the movement that follows are simply things that happen and he doesn't bother reacting.  
  
"You look comfortable," says a young voice with a clear Canadian accent. It's quiet, and a little snuffly. Freddie is abruptly reminded of Mitch after their first loss as a rookie - he'd taken it hard and to heart.  
  
"Yeah. I was bored," he replies, not really caring that he sounds it.  
  
There's a disbelieving snort from above him, and he hears the person sit down. He's mildly annoyed by it, his peace disturbed, but the kid sounds pretty sad, so whatever. As long as he's quiet.  
  
The kid immediately breaks it by saying, "I'm not sure how you can find it boring." He sounds wistful, almost. Freddie rolls his eyes.  
  
"Going round in circles isn't really my thing," Freddie replies, "That crash was entertaining though."  
  
There's a bitter laugh, and the kid says, "Well, as long as I'm providing some entertainment." There's silence for a moment, then a deep sigh, and then a subdued, "Sorry. I shouldn't be venting at you."  
  
Freddie can't help a snort of laughter. "So Canadian," he says, "Apologising for having feelings." The kid laughs, too, but there's a nasty edge to it, like having feelings is the worst possible thing. About this, in particular. Freddie knows that feeling, knows the anger simmering beneath his skin, the failure dug in under his defences and into his flesh. If the kid is who Freddie thinks he is - the young Canadian driver that had crashed earlier - then it must be the same for him.  
  
There's a long silence, and Freddie counts his breaths and listens to the not-so-distant roar of engines. He feels the kid shift a couple of times, but he doesn't say anything more. The quiet isn't relaxing any more, it's opressive and tinged with bitterness. So much for having a little peace. May as well fix this.  
  
Freddie breaks the silence. "There is a Danish saying, a man must know himself before he can judge himself." There isn't, but Freddie is great at bullshitting, and he can spout platitudes with the best of them. It had been necessary, to maintain his goalie mystique in Anaheim. The Leafs have much more inbuilt respect for the position of a netminder, but the skill hasn't died. Especially when he's had nearly the same conversation with six different rookies at different times. "How well do you know yourself, to judge yourself so harshly?"  
  
The quality of the silence changes to one of stunned shock, and Freddie smiles beneath the concealment of his hat. Still got it.  
  
"I... guess I try. But I'm not very good at it," the kid replies, and there's honesty in his tone. Close enough.  
  
Freddie shrugs, "You can only try. Failing is part of being human, especially if you're in a high-pressure job."  
  
The kid snorts, and says, a little incredulously, "What do you know about high-pressure jobs?"  
  
Freddie laughs, short and sharp, and sits up, re-settling his hat and turning so he's sitting sideways on the step, looking up at the kid. As Freddie had suspected, it's Stroll, the young driver that had crashed earlier. His race suit is tied about his waist, crumpled, and his hair is wild like he's been running his hands through it. As he recognises Freddie, his expression goes from mulish anger to shock, his mouth dropping open.   
  
After a moment, he gathers himself, clearly media-trained. "Andersen," he says, almost under his breath. Freddie allows a little smirk to tick up the corner of him mouth, and for a second, everything is still.  
  
Then the kid bursts into semi-hysterical laughter. "Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. I'm getting a pep talk from the fucking Leafs goalie!" He buries his face in his hands and the laughter edges towards sobbing for a second. There's a long moment where he's clearly on the edge of tears, and then he takes a long breath in and out, and then drops his hands onto his knees. "I mean, no offense, man, but I'm not exactly a Leafs fan," he adds, the edge of hysteria still tinging his voice.  
  
"Habs fan, huh?" says Freddie, letting him have the dignity of ignoring his near-breakdown.  
  
"Yeah," Stroll replies, his tone making the innocuous statement a sincere thanks. "Price is my goalie," he adds in a forcibly-light tone, clearly trying to joke his way out of misery.  
  
Freddie laughs quietly, and says, "Price is a good dude."  
  
"Good to hear," the kid says, and a genuine, if small, smile lifts his lips for the first time since he'd turned up. "Sucks that he keeps getting injured, though," he adds, and Freddie can recognise a topic change when it's handed to him on a silver platter.  
  
"Yeah, he's had a pretty bad season," he responds, "Doesn't help that he keeps getting run."  
  
"Oh my god," Stroll rolls his eyes, "What is goalie interference even?"  
  
Freddie laughs, because everyone had been bitching about that all season. "I have no idea," he replies, and they settle into shooting the shit about NHL referees and their complete inability to be consistent. Slowly, centimetre by centimetre, the kid relaxes, and gets a little more animated. Freddie grins internally.  
  
In the background, there's a roar, and Freddie tunes back in to the sound of the crowd and loudspeakers that he's been ignoring for the past hour or so. Something about Ferrari. From the way Stroll slumps, it's the end of the race.  
  
"Time to face the music?" he asks, and the kid nods.  
  
"Already got it from my manager," he says, and deflates further. "That was before I came out here. But Claire will want to... have a chat, probably."  
  
Freddie reaches out, clasps his shoulder. "You'll be okay," he says, gentling his voice, because this kid is just a rookie and clearly needs the reassurance. He pulls out his phone. "Hey, what's your number. You can text me later, tell me how it went."  
  
The kid's head lifts, and for a moment, there's hero-worship there, the same look as every kid Freddie signs an autograph for. "I - okay," he says, a little awe there, and then rattles off his number.   
  
Freddie throws off a quick text and returns the phone to his pocket as the kid stands and brushes off his race suit. There's a moment, and then the kid sticks out his hand. "Lance Stroll," he says, perfectly Canadian-polite, and holds out his hand.  
  
"Frederik Andersen," Freddie replies, standing. Of course the Canadian would want to be proper about this. "But you knew that," he adds as he shakes Stroll's hand.  
  
"Yeah," the kid smiles, and lets go, darting up the stairs. He turns as he opens the door, his face serious again. "Thanks. Seriously... thanks."  
  
"You're welcome," Freddie replies, and Stroll shoots him a quick grin as he slips through the door and away.  
  
Freddie shrugs to himself as he heads back to the lounge. Definitely not what he expected of today, but interesting.  
  
\----  
  
[Unknown Number, 11:50pm]  
hey thx for today  
  
[Unknown Number, 11:51pm]  
hav 2 talk more about [hockey stick emoji][racecar emoji]  
f1 isnt just going rond in crcles  
  
[Unknown Number, 11:53pm]  
this is lance btw  
  
[Me, 11:54pm]  
hi lance. drink some water  
  
[Lance [racecar emoji], 09:14am]  
Sorry. I shouldn't have bothered you last night. Thanks for the talk yesterday, I really appreciated the encouragement.  
  
[Me, 09:16am]  
that's OK. used to talking to rookies. you have a hangover?  
  
[Lance [racecar emoji], 09:16am]  
I don't, thank you for asking.  
I'm a sophomore, by the way. This is my second year racing.  
  
[Me, 09:17am]  
sophomores, rookies. same really.  
  
[Lance [racecar emoji], 09:18am]  
hey  
  
[Me, 09:22am]  
[big grin emoji]

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if there's any typos or whatever. I'm on tumblr ([personal](http://steel-phoenix.tumblr.com/), and [hockey sideblog](https://steel-on-the-ice.tumblr.com/))


End file.
